Hugh Cook - The Wazir and the Witch

‘This is no time for games,’ said Zozimus.

And elaborated, swiftly outlining the need for urgency. Qasaba remained unmoved.

‘Go,’ said Qasaba, ‘and see for yourself.’

‘Well,’ said Pokrov, ‘well, if you say so. We will. We will. Don’t worry, friend Zozimus. Shabble will soon be a convert to our cause. I guarantee it.’

‘You speak of converts?’ said Qasaba, with a wry smile. ‘You mean to convert Shabble? I believe it is Shabble who is doing the converting these days.’

‘What precisely is that supposed to mean?’ said Pokrov.

‘Go to Marthandorthan,’ said Qasaba. ‘Dare your way to Xtokobrokotok. Then you’ll find out.’

Since the eminent Ashdan therapist declined to say more, regardless of the urgencies of the moment, his two visitors had no option but to remove themselves from the Dromanjerie and set forth for the lair of the drug dealer Firfat Labrat, there to find out for themselves precisely what mischief was presently amusing the feckless and ever-reckless Shabble.

They feared, of course, that by this time Justina might well be dead.

There were at this time some 30,000 souls in the fair city of Injiltaprajura, which means that a comprehensive history of even a single day in the life of the metropolis would be encyclopedic in bulk and mind-boggling in complexity. Fortunately, this is not such a comprehensive history; it is selective in the extreme, which is why only a very few of the inhabitants of Untunchilamon’s capital have been mentioned by name.

Reference has been made to Lonstantine, Justina and Theodora Thrug; to Juliet Idaho and Shanvil May; to the wizards Pelagius Zozimus and Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin; to the formidable Aquitaine Varazchavardan and his erstwhile apprentice Nixorjapretzel Rat; to certain survivors of the Golden Gulag, these being the bright-bouncing Shabble, an engineer called Ivan Pokrov and a conjuror going by the name of Odolo; to Jon Qasaba and to his daughter Olivia, lover of the Ebrell Islander Chegory Guy, himself a friend of the Crab of the island of Jod; to Manthandros Trasilika, Jean Froissart and Nadalastab-stala Banraithanchumun Ek; to the lawyer Dardanalti and to others.

Now, all of these people know (or will know) all of the others; and each must take the actual or potential actions of all into account when manoeuvring for survival or advantage. Unfortunately, this tends to make for complexity; and there is a danger that some few readers unversed in the ways of history will find the interplay of even this carefully thinned selection of protagonists a trifle bewildering.

But what is the poor historian to do?

Were this a fiction instead of a history, certain obvious solutions could be entertained, most of them involving a general massacre to simplify the outline of events. A glorious and spontaneous bursting of brains, for example; or a sudden plague of meningococcal meningitis; or a rain of rocks from the sky to shatter an appropriate number of heads; or a swarm of killer scorpions invading from Zolabrik to sting, chew, bite and scrabble their way through a living nightmare until Injiltaprajura was suitably depopulated; or evil elves with phosphorescent eyes arriving by the shipload to hack the city’s population down to a thousandth of its original magnitude.

But facts are as they are; and the fact is that no unnatural disaster beset the island of Untunchilamon in the final days of the reign of Justina Thrug. Furthermore, anyone who grew to maturity in the time of Talonsklavara was by definition a survivor; therefore the advent of a new wazir and the political instability thereby produced did not automatically result in large numbers of people conveniently curling up their toes and disappearing from the historical panorama.

Be assured, however, that all key players in the politics of Untunchilamon have now been identified, and will be identified yet again should the need arise. Nevertheless, there remains a need to make mention of one more person. This is Bro Drumel, captain of Justina’s palace guard.

On the fateful day on which the good ship Oktobdoj arrived in the Laitemata, Bro Drumel began his morning by attacking some of the paperwork which had piled up in his office in the Moremo Maximum Security Prison. He was still hard at work in that office when he received news of the arrival of a brothel ship in Laitemata.

‘Such rumour is false,’ said Drumel to the messenger who so informed him. ‘If drums could talk, they’d rumour thus, but tongues have no less excuse for ignorance. No brothel ship would sail across Moana.’

‘But it is true, my lord,’ insisted the messenger, as politely as he knew how. ‘I have seen the bark myself.’

‘How absurd,’ said Drumel. ‘A brothel ship! Here! They’ll lose money on that, and badly.’

Then he thought no more about it, which was easy to do as Moremo was located on Injiltaprajura’s desert side, and hence insulated from any immediate knowledge of developments (excitements, alarums, arrests, confrontations and such) taking place portside.

Bro Drumel was currently running the prison (as well as Justina’s palace guard) because the Governor of that institution had died after being attacked and bitten by a rabid pig. The Governor’s deputy was in the Dromdanjerie suffering from delirium tremens and the deputy’s deputy was illiterate; so the Empress Justina, after considering the lack of available talent, had lumbered Bro Drumel with this job in addition to his other duties.

Drumel suspected he was being punished.

Punished?

Why, yes.

For, earlier in the year, Bro Drumel had joined a coup against the Empress, a coup which had almost cost Justina her life. Much had thereafter been forgiven, but not all; hence Bro Drumel’s labours.

His paperwork was finally interrupted by the advent of Juliet Idaho, who was searching for Shanvil Angarus May.

‘What do you want him for?’ said Bro Drumel.

‘To kick in his head,’ answered Idaho.

Which was in keeping with Idaho’s character; though the truth was rather different, the truth being that the Empress Justina had commanded Idaho to produce Shanvil Angarus May so they could discuss a certain translation which May had made from the Slandolin.

‘Why,’ said Drumel, ‘seek him here?’

‘Because May is your deputy, is he not?’ said Idaho.

‘Technically, yes,’ said Drumel. ‘But he’s yet to show his face in the prison. I think he lacks a taste for paperwork.’

So saying, Drumel pointed at his own paperwork in distaste. Petitions; ration requisitions; authorizations for routine maintenance work; calculations for release dates; certificates of birchings, beatings and brandings; and stacks of similar bureaucratic impedimenta.

‘But,’ said Idaho, in extreme irritation, ‘I was specifically told he would be here.’

‘You were lied to,’ said Drumel.

‘It was a soldier who told me,’ said Idaho.

‘Soldiers are not universally truthful,’ said Drumel dryly.

‘I’ll beat him till his bones are bare and bloody,’ said Idaho savagely. ‘He told me a deliberate lie. To my face!’

‘Who was it?’ said Drumel.

Idaho named the miscreant, then said:

‘I’d been looking for May in the palace. Then I… I met these-’

He stopped.

Something unusual had happened.

Juliet Idaho had begun to think.

Idaho thought hard. He had left Justina. He had gone in search of May. He had failed to find May. Then he had met a party of soldiers entering the palace. He had asked after May. He had been lied to: had been misdirected to the desert side prison.

Which meant…

‘You!’ roared Idaho, drawing his sword.

‘Don’t chop me!’ screamed Bro Drumel, throwing up his hands in horror.